Busy going to hell and back. 

Busy getting the Bird flu from the previews of that movie, Contagion.

But you'll be happy to know, unlike Gwynie Paltrow and everyone else in the movie, I made it through the rain or shall I say I made it through the mutant-virus-acid-rain. And let me tell you, that thing knocked me on my ass like it was the Mike Tyson of bugs. In fact, I think that's what I'll call it, the Mike Tyson Influenza. Although, if the real, ear-snacking, Hangover-tattooed Mike Tyson ever slugged me, I guarantee you, I'd still be in a vegetative state right now.

When I had the Mike Tyson Flu I'd get up in the morning and be like, "Okay, ease one foot out of the bed and now the other aaaaand I'm done for the day."

Seriously, I was like my kids when I ask them to clean their rooms and they suddenly have the energy of a comatose patient. I was exhausted in waking.  

And that's not me. I'm always like that Dicky Fox from Jerry Maguire:

Which, let me tell you, my kids totally LOVE my exuberant, peppy energy in the morning.

I've now recovered from the Mike Tyson Flu and I'm back to jumping out of bed, clapping my hands and BRINGING ON THE DAY.

My kids are overjoyed.

I've also been busy climbing aboard the "I love Ryan Gosling" train. And yes, I know I'm kind of tardy to the partay. Every living, breathing female in the world already has a ticket to that sweet blue-eyed show.

But see, before a few weeks ago, Ryan Gosling had never even entered my hot man radar.

I gave him and his six pack abs about as much thought as I give to cleaning the gutters or golf or hedge funds or lima beans or the World Wrestling Federation.

Which is no thought, whatsoever.

I'd never noticed his hotness, partly because I'm old enough to have been his babysitter when he was a little guy. So, I'd never thought of Ryan Gosling as a man before. And my biggest requirement for hot men is that they are, in fact, men. (I'm pointing at you, my friend Jane with your all encompassing love for boy Zac Efron.)

But I was wrong, oh so wrong, about Mr. Manly Man, Ryan Gosling.

I'd also never seen any of his movies.

And no, I have not seen The Notebook.

Just like I have never seen any of the Twilight movies. And let's not go there, okay Twilight fans? Because the next thing you know, you'll be telling me about your love for Miley Cyrus "music" and then I will no longer be able to be your friend.

Anyway.

All of my ignorance of Mr. Ryan Gosling's hot manliness was blasted to pieces when I saw, Crazy, Stupid Love.

And by the way, I've had some requests lately for my movie reviews, but since I only review BAD movies, I don't have anything in my repertoire as of this moment. I'll make sure to share as soon as I see whatever movie Nicholas Cage does next.

But not only is Crazy, Stupid Love this utter charm of a movie, that you must, must see, Ryan Gosling just oozes what I will, from now on refer to as, Ryan Goslingness.



It's his charm and sexiness and wit and talent and sweetness and gorgeousness and did I mention his charm, (charm goes a long way with me), all rolled into one.

I was already completely enamored with his sex god body
and his schmoozy personality, but then he had to go lift Emma Stone in the air in that splendid Dirty Dancing move.
(This is not the move. This is just another opportunity to see Ryan Gosling shirtless.)

(Really. You must see this movie, if just for that one move alone and of course, Ryan's naked scene.)

And when Ryan had that cute Emma over his head, so gracefully twirling her around, that's when I'm pretty sure I whispered out loud in the movie theater, "Ryan Gosling, I will love you forever."

And if that movie wasn't enough to make all of mankind fall in love with him, (yes, I believe he has the power to turn a straight man gay), a few weeks later I saw Drive.


I am now stricken for life.

And for those of you who have not seen Drive, I must warn you.

You will either love it or hate it.

There is no in-between with this movie. No one is going to see it and say, "Ehhh, it was alright."

Which gives you a little hint of the potency of this film.

I, of course, loved it.

It's right up my alley—artsy, edgy and Ryan Goslingy, all rolled into one.

The people with me hated it. And that would include my hubby who ruined this one beautiful moment for me when Ryan Gosling was emoting with his big blue eyes.
(Notice Carey Mulligan's hair. Blonde pixie? Look familiar? If only Jesus answered my nightly prayers, that could have been me. But alas, I am still waiting to be kissed by Ryan Gosling, for Bono to show up at my door, for my hipbones to magically reappear again and for a lifetime supply of Manolos. Jesus must be busy giving Ryan Gosling everything he desires. Which is okay. Look at him. He totally deserves Jesus's full attention.)

I was so into this scene and Ryan's fabulous emoting, until my hubby leaned over and yelled, which his version of whispering, "LET'S GO CHECK OUT ANOTHER MOVIE. THIS ONE BLOWS. NOBODY'S TALKING."

And I was all, "If YOU talk again during this movie I will dump this bag of popcorn on you."

So, if you hate artsy and violence and not a lot of talking during the first part of a movie, you might want to skip this one.

But for those of us who don't need talking to understand the deeper nuances of the film *ahem* and if you are in love with the idea of a man who would smash someone's head in, just to keep you safe, go check out Drive.

Here's Ryan Gosling being very Ryan Goslingly by protecting his woman from the bad guy in the elevator.

And here's his ultra romantic kiss right before he smashes the head in of the said bad guy. Because that's how Ryan Gosling does things. Swooningly.

And one more thing, while we're on the subject:

 I can totally drive like a bad ass, just like Ryan Gosling in the movie.

Seriously. I think in another lifetime I was either a race car or stunt car driver.

Like Rainman, I am an excellent driver.

And so what if I can't parallel park. I don't see many amazing parallel parking stunts.

So, now that I've told you how really full my life is with the busy, I have a little tale for you. It's kind of like Drive. It's harrowing, a little violent and even charming in a Ryan Gosling kind of way.

Okay, so here goes.

I live in the woods.

My husband hates when I say that and I say it all the time. He thinks it makes us sound like we're a bunch of Unibombers living in a shack with our kids all dressed in rags, covered in filth, with ratty-ass hair.

We don't live in a shack and we are not making bombs here. Also, our daughters do not dress in rags. Forever 21 can vouch for that. The sales girls call us by name when we walk in the door. And having good hair is the core of their very existence. There are nuclear meltdowns in this house when the hair does not cooperate or they can't locate a straightener in the debris of their dung dumps.

The only somewhat true fact is, if you've seen their bedrooms or dung dumps as I refer to them, you would agree with me, that yes indeed, they do live in filth and perhaps they are hoarders.

The thing is, I live on lots and lots of acres and most of those acres are woods. I cannot see the road from my house, because of the super abundance of trees that make up my front yard. Which is a lot of yard. With a lot of trees.

I was under the impression that defines living in the woods.

How about I say Hinterland? I live in the Hinterland. That's unique. And it doesn't make me sound like Ted Kaczyknski.

It does, however, make me sound like Santa Claus.

Anyway, here in the Hinterland, I only have two neighbors.

On one side of me are the neighbors who are more like my family.

And that would be my hub's business partner, his wife and their children.

They are so much like family I could call Debbie, (the wife) and say, "Hey, I need to borrow a hammer, some duct tape and some excellent vodka." Or something just as ridiculously random and she wouldn't even bat an eye. She'd be like, "Ah, the girls giving you a hard time? Will Grey Goose do? I'll send one of the kids over with it."

That's how we are. Family comfortable with each other.

On the other side of me are some other neighbors. They're nice folks, but we have a more formal relationship. I would never ask to borrow a hammer and vodka. At least, not at the same time.

So, the other day my formal neighbor called me up which is a little surprising, because we don't do much chatty chat on the phone. Actually never.

When I answered the phone, this is what my formal neighbor said to me, "Did you hear me screaming at 5:00 AM?"

And since this is something a formal neighbor usually doesn't ask, I figured it was bad.

And it was.

She had let her dogs out, because that's how we do it in the Hinterland. We can just open the door, let them do their business, and wait for them to come back.

She said when her dogs didn't come back after a few minutes, she called them.

One of the dogs came running, but the other one was whimpering and moving very slowly.

And that's when she saw the yellow jackets covering his fur and hovering over him like a cloud.

The yellow jackets started stinging her when she got to the dog, so she threw the dog in the garage, closed the door and ran to get her husband out of bed.

He killed them with many whacks of the broom, getting stung in the process himself.

My neighbor said the poor dog had yellow jackets embedded in his fur.

The dog is fine. Very, very swollen, but with the proper treatment and rest, he's doing a lot better.

Which is a good thing. Here in the Hinterland, yellow jacket attacks can be deadly.

My neighbor told me her husband checked it out and sure enough, there was an enormous yellow jacket nest, more like a tower, jutting out of the ground and it was on our property. I immediately called my hubs. He'd found a giant nest a few years before. It was so big, we knew we'd have to get it professionally exterminated. The dude who came out estimated there were over 3,000 yellow jackets in that nest.

We couldn't remember the name of the exterminator, so we got on the phone and started dialing.

My hubs got lucky right away. It was already past 6:00 at night, but the exterminator said he was driving home from a job and could swing by.

Okay.

So, here's the thing about me.

I am a magnet for the eccentric people of the Earth.

One time, a psychic told me I had an aura that attracted whimsical souls.

That was about the truest thing anyone has ever said about me.

Although my sister-in-law did say to me this weekend, as we were walking on the beach, me in my wedges, that she hadn't seen me in anything but heels since 1992. That one was pretty true, too.

Anyway, this exterminator showed up and annihilated that army of yellow jackets.

And then my hubs invited the yellow jacket assassin into the house. which is when he called me into the room, so I could write the man a check.

I didn't leave that room for the next hour and a half.

This  fit, 66-year-old man with his handsome, ruddy face and trim white beard (yes, I know his age and just about everything else about him), told me he'd retired a few years back, but he realized within months of retiring, the best way to stay young was to work . . . and become a Renaissance man.

That's right. A Renaissance Man.

His main occupation was getting rid of yellow jackets and other stinging creatures' nests. He told me he didn't exterminate bees, since we all know, bees are essential to humanity. If the bee goes, we're all right behind it.

And I'm not sure why that is. I think about it as much as I think about tofu and patterned capri pants.

Which would be, never.

But the point is, this exterminator had a big bee love. In fact, he gave us a jar of honey from his own personal stash of bees.

He told me that besides killing stinging things, he also sprayed for bugs. Bug extermination is big business here in the tropics because the tropics have bugs. Lots of bugs.

And when you live in the Hinterland, you have even more than the regular tropics folks.

We have a bug guy, but I haven't been very happy with him lately.

My bug guy is the Jeff Spicoli of the Bug World.

I can tell by my bug man's mellow, "Heyyyyy" when I answer the door to him peering out of bloodshot eyes, that he's taken a couple bong hits in his spider-roofed truck right before he knocks on my door.

And I don't have a problem with that. I'd probably be taking a few tokes too, if I had to kill bugs all day.

My bug guy used to be totally into his work, very thorough, searching my house for bug droppings. Even showing me pictures of various types of insect crap on his iPhone, which was totally, totally not necessary. But he insisted.

When I informed him I had sugar ants that were getting into the dogs' bowls, Bug Man Jeff Spicoli actually got down on all fours, examined the tiny little dudes up close and announced, "Yep, those are totally sugar ants." Because, clearly you can't get a real verification unless you're stoned eyeball to eyeball with them. I mean, the man was thorough.

But lately, Jeff Spicoli hasn't been showing up when he's supposed to. And I've seen a bug or two.

And so when the Yellow Jacket/Renaissance Man said he sprayed for bugs, my hubs jumped on it.

Mr. Exterminator, just like Jeff Spicoli, was totally into the process, making sure he told me every single detail about his extermination process. Every. Single. Detail.

At least, he didn't pull out his iPhone and show me bug crap.

In the process of getting to know him for the hour and a half I was missing the X Factor, he told me he lived on the other side of the bay, across the bridge.

And when anyone from our part says they live across the bridge, they are referring to one of three bridges, several miles long, that connect the mainland to the beach.

He told me most of his work was on the mainland which is quite a distance from the beach, but he didn't mind. He loved living on the Gulf.

Who wouldn't?

And that's when he told me, not only was he a yellow jacket exterminator, bee keeper and bug man, he was also a writer.

A poet.

Oh, let me tell you, I knew what was coming next.

And I was delighted. Delighted, I tell you!

My new friend not only wrote poetry, he knew his own words by heart.

He shared with me one of his poems, inspired by his drive across one of those long bridges, one evening as the sun was setting.

And it went like this: (He gave me permission to write it down and share it with all of you.)

The sun bids the earth farewell


And as her gift in goodbye


She sets the ripples to liquid gold


She takes this bridge made by man and steel


And illuminates it, making it shimmer before me


Her gift is of the finest treasure


And I am honored by her fiery glory


This is my Gulf 


This is my Bridge


And these are my humble words, the words of the Bug Man


Do you not just LOVE his last line?

Oh, let me tell you. A bug man who recites his own poetry. He was hired on the spot. I have a feeling the Bug Man and I are going to get along just fine.

I can't wait to hear his homage to the cockroach.

Today's Definite Download: Not a download, but a commercial that I am completely enamored with. If you've already seen it on my Facebook wall, forgive me. But I just can't get over the brilliance of this commercial. It's only a minute long, so check it out. If we could only all be so lucky.